October 23, 2023
Greetings from the birders,
The house sat in a row of modest bungalows, nested on postage stamp lots, surrounded by slightly varying patches of grass. The sidewalk through the neighborhood was already a curiosity, a rare accent that attracted tourists who cruised along the curb taking pictures with their phones, steering with their knees, sometimes creasing the grass on the median with errant tires.
Stan and Lois bumped into each other in the living room, each holding coffee cups, saying ‘Ope!’ as they passed, trying not to spill on the carpet. This was an ongoing thing for them in the tiny rooms, running into each other. Neither liked being too far from the other, so even alone in the house, they were always underfoot.
Around his neck Stan had a small pair of binoculars he had picked up at a garage sale, back when people did that. He bent at the waist, spilling a little more coffee, and with his free hand raised the binoculars to his eyes and aimed them out the front window.
“Lois, I think I see one in the yard,” he said, “I can’t tell, he’s sort of fidgeting at the end of our walk.”
Lois scurried closer to the sheers and pushed them gently aside, not wanting to startle, and squinted through the glass. “Where?” she asked
“Oh, he fluttered off, dangit,” said Stan. “I thought he was coming up to see, but he stopped, I think maybe got a text, or was finishing his Wordle.”
“Stan,” Lois punched him gently in the shoulder, spilling another few drops on the pitiable green shag by the window. “Always the optimist. He was probably taking a selfie.”
Stan let the binoculars drop and straightened. “Maybe we need to put out something different, we haven’t had anyone land at all this week.”
They glanced at each other, answering without speaking. They both knew there was no room in the box in the yard, it was already filled to the edges.
Stan had set the pole in the grass, close enough to the sidewalk to make it convenient, and then mounted the box he’d built, his first woodworking project after he was laid off from the post office. No one sent letters anymore, they told him. They’d call if they needed him at Christmas when Amazon was too busy for all the things.
The box was a work of art, a tiny replica of their little cottage. The baby blue walls, wood shingled roof, petite windows with navy shutters. He was so proud the day he put it out, and he could sense the neighbors watching.
The two of them stood in the window, sipping coffee, shoulders touching, watching and waiting, thinking, naively perhaps, that the neighbors were still watching. Every so often, Stan would whisper “Ooh, oh, …” and raise his binoculars, and then lower them with a sigh. False alarm.
He’d loved building the little house in the yard, but of course the real joy was filling it. He and Lois spent hours researching the right thing to put out, stockpiled their choices on the TV trays and card tables in the spare bedroom. Most of those were still there.
Autumn scattered its colored glitter on the lawn and Stan rushed out and swept the grass clear, not wanting anything to deter visitors. The temperatures cooled and there was less movement on the sidewalk. The two of them began to wonder if it was futile, but they pulled the little swivel rockers by the picture window anyway, so they could sit and watch.
Then one day a woman came down the sidewalk, holding the hand of a little girl. They were not from the neighborhood, Lois could tell by the way they walked, looking at each yard like it was a museum exhibit. Then they stopped in front of Stan and Lois’ house and hovered for a moment.
Lois heard Stan take a breath, but he didn’t move, didn’t say anything. The woman was leaning over talking to the girl, pointing at the box, maybe explaining. The little girl was nodding, then the two of them stepped onto the grass.
“Lois,” Stan whispered urgently, “Lois come here!”
“I’m sitting right next to you Stan, I can see!” she hissed, excited.
The woman reached up to the tiny house on the pole and swung open the glass door Stan had so lovingly fashioned, so that anyone could see what was inside. She reached in and pulled out a slim volume, colorful cover, and held it for the little girl to see. They were both nodding.
“Oh, oh, oh, they are taking ‘That’s Me Loving You’,” Stan said. “It’s such a good one.”
Lois dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “She will enjoy that.”
They watched as the two fluttered in the yard for a moment longer and then swept down the sidewalk and out of view. Stan and Lois turned to each other beaming.
The next day the woman was back with a friend and Stan and Lois watched them take a romance novel and a daily devotional, the two women animated and smiling, obviously delighted. Later that morning a car stopped at the curb and a man, looking up and down nervously, as if he might be caught, hurried to the box and took a Baldacci novel, and flew away.
The day after, there was a flurry of activity. A historical fiction about Scotland, a Dave Barry compilation, several children’s books, and the one Steven King copy they had. All whirled away in a flurry of color and movement. Stan waited until he was sure it was quiet and rushed out to the little free library with an armload of books and filled it again.
And then every day there were visitors. Some were as nervous as a finch, others lighted at the box and scoured the inside until they had their fill. In the late afternoon there would be several children at once, a murmuration of little ones, standing tip-toe so they could see into the box, and pull out ‘Goodnight Moon’ and ‘Hungry Caterpillar’ and ‘The Places You Will Go’. An elderly neighbor eased into the yard and took ‘Sweet Thursday’ and gave a little salute of thanks to Stan and Lois, framed in their picture window.
Stan and Lois rocked and watched, reading their own books by the light of the window, holding hands, only letting go to turn a page. And each time someone flitted into the yard, they would both lean forward in their chairs and watch to see what book might soar into the world. And with each name they said, with each visitor they saw wing away smiling, they felt hope grow.
Hope this finds you spreading the words,
David
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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